


Reflex

by twoturtlesinabathtub



Series: Flight Patterns [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Bad Puns, Bullying, Canon-compliant violence, Child Neglect, Drama, F/M, Flashbacks, Humor, Language, Romance, and I mean they're just awful, past descriptions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-07 04:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11616249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoturtlesinabathtub/pseuds/twoturtlesinabathtub
Summary: When the Shepherds picked Henry up on Carrion Island by happenstance, the last thing they were expecting was for him to be an invaluable asset. And, of course, their chief tactician couldn't help but notice this fact more than anyone else.





	1. A Stray

**Author's Note:**

> Time to finally start posting shit about my all-time favorite Fire Emblem character, the homicidal cinnamon roll with a penchant for terrible puns. He deserves the world.
> 
> If you weren't already aware, Japanese Henry and Localized Henry have some significant personality discrepancies between each other, which can be tough to handle. However, this is my attempt to show that both of those representations can coexist within the same gore obsessed, moon faced mage, haha. Hold on to your hats.

He materialized from nothing and with nothing.

Most all of the strays Chrom's Shepherds picked up had some personal effects on them at their first encounter, but not Henry. Whistling an unfamiliar tune, he appeared in a swarm of blackbirds, Ruin tome in hand, an enormous grin sandwiched between a shock of silver hair and a pair of brittle looking chicken legs. Chrom felt he _had_  to recruit him on the spot, or else the kid would be Risen chow.

Instead, he was a like a whirlwind of destruction. Several soldiers stopped in their tracks, jaws agape, to goggle at the dark mage who cut a bloody swathe through the enemy as though the Risen were made of so much rice paper, immediately turned to confetti with a flick of his wrist. He cackled through most of the skirmish. By battle's end he was covered in blackish blood, gossiping with the crows that were already descending on the rotting corpses. The Shepherds gave him a wide berth as they began to regroup before moving on. 

All except for two. Chrom kept his steady gaze fixed on Robin as she made her way over to their newest member to introduce herself. "Hello," she called pleasantly, forcing down a cringe when he turned to smile at her with his gore-splattered face. 

"Hiya!" he chirped, standing up and fruitlessly wiping his hands on his sash; he'd been poking inside the crushed skull of a Risen archer.

"I'm sorry for not introducing myself earlier," she apologized, "but things got hairy fast. I'm Robin, the Shepherds' chief tactician." She held out her hand to shake. "Pleased to meet you, er..." 

"Henry." He peered at her outstretched hand for a moment, then grasped it lightly with long, cold fingers. 

"Right, Henry. Sorry." 

"Oh, don't worry about it. So, am I still good to go?" 

Robin blinked. "'Go'? I'm not sure wh—oh, do you mean, is Chrom's invitation for you to join us still good?"

"Yup!" 

"Of course." Robin looked back in Chrom's direction and was surprised to see him observing them. He nodded slowly in assent. "Chrom's a man of his word," she replied, turning back to face the Plegian. "Welcome to the Shepherds."

 .~.~. 

"Henry." 

The dark mage looked up from the sigil he'd been doodling in the dirt. Looming over him in the light of the fire was...that big fella. The leader's stalker. What was his name? "Hey-o, big guy." That would have to do. 

Big Guy frowned; it was just Henry's first day, but he could already tell that it was the knight's favorite expression. "Milord Chrom wishes to speak with you. If you'll follow me, his tent is this way." 

"Okey-doke!" And Henry trundled after him.

Big Guy ended up leading him to a tent that was the same size as all the rest, which Henry found a little surprising. Leaving the curt knight to stand guard outside, Henry lifted a tent flap to peer in. Situated around a table were three people: the leader ("Chrome"? Gosh, he'd never been too good with names), the woman who had spoken to him on Carrion Island earlier that night, and a dark robed mage with red hair and a keen gaze behind glinting spectacles. 

"Henry, welcome," the tactician said with a smile. "Come on in, we were just about to discuss your place within the Shepherds. Have a seat." He took the proffered chair, one of his legs swinging absently once he was settled. 

"But before we get to that," the leader interjected, glancing over to the woman who'd spoken, "we want to make absolutely certain that you're sure about this. Do you still want to join us? The path we've chosen is a long and dangerous one." 

Henry's carefree laugh echoed in the small space. "I already told you, I love fighting! Killing's kinda my thing—I thought I gave you a nice little sample of that with those mushy meat puppets earlier." 

"Hmm...." The leader's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Aside from Gangrel, I've yet to come across someone as enthusiastic about carnage as you are." 

"It is irregular, to be sure, but perhaps to be expected of a mage who is so heavily imbued with dark magical prowess," remarked the bespectacled woman. "I couldn't help making the observation that Tharja is also relatively nonchalant about bloodshed; I believe the correlation between this mentality and the use of dark magic may be a fascinating line of inquiry to pursue." 

"Uh...right you are, Miriel," said the leader, looking a bit lost. 

"The point is," the tactician said, coming to his rescue, "Tharja's proven that she's a valuable ally—" 

"And utterly fixated upon you, Robin," added Miriel. 

"—so it's very possible that Henry could be the same." 

"Do you mean Henry could prove useful, or that he'd also develop an unhealthy obsession?" The blue haired man was clearly having trouble following the thread of the conversation. 

Robin rolled her eyes. "Chrom, give me a break." 

(Henry now knew all of their names, and felt proud of himself for noticing.) 

Miriel cleared her throat pointedly. "The former, captain. Neither Robin nor I have any objection to this young man's posthaste enlistment." 

Chrom nodded, but it looked somewhat hesitant. "All right, Miriel, you know I trust your and Robin's judgment." His steely blue gaze fixed on Henry once more, sizing him up. 

Henry chuckled, unfazed and unintimidated. "Don't worry—if you don't think you can trust me, you can always just kill me!" 

"...All right." Chrom blinked several times as Robin stared with wide eyes and Miriel's narrowed behind her glasses. "Uh, if that's all, then Miriel here will help you get settled in camp and show you our collection of tomes." 

"Ooh, tomes? I can't wait to take a look! G'night!" Henry hopped up from his seat and followed his fellow mage out of the tent. 

A few seconds after they left, Chrom slumped in his seat, head tilting back as his eyes closed in exhaustion. "He's...an odd one." 

Robin hummed noncommittally as she scribbled on the parchment in front of her. "That he is. Sort of funny, though."

One of Chrom's eyes cracked open to give his tactician a disbelieving look. "'Funny'? I'm almost positive I saw him steal an eyeball from a Risen corpse earlier." 

Robin shrugged. "I guess we'll see how he fits in. We're a pretty ragtag group, after all." 

Chrom chuckled. "You can say that again."

Just as they concluded their business for the evening and Robin was gathering her things to leave, Frederick cleared his throat outside the tent. "Yes, Frederick, what is it?" called Chrom. 

The knight poked his head through the flaps. "Pardon, milord, but Panne insists that she speak with you." 

"Oh. All right, send her in." 

Panne entered the tent slowly, standing barely inside. "I have information about the new curse-slinger," she began without preamble. "We have met before." 

"You have?" Robin leaned forward, intrigued. 

"Yes. He informed me of the Plegian plot against Exalt Emmeryn's life two years ago." 

The pause in conversation following her claim was almost painful. "R-really?" Chrom finally choked out. 

Panne's nose twitched. "Unlike those of your kind, I do not lie." 

"We believe you're telling the truth," Robin assured her. "It just seems too incredible to be true. Do you know why he told you?" 

"I do not." 

"We'll have to ask him," Chrom muttered, eyes dark. Robin looked over at him in concern. 

"So we can trust him?" she asked, turning back to Panne.

The taguel's face was impassive. "I do not yet know him, and do not intend to do so. Still, I will vouch for him. For now." She left the tent as quickly as she came, leaving stunned silence in her wake. 

"One good turn deserves another," said Robin finally. She turned to Chrom for confirmation; he nodded tersely, jaw clenched and gaze averted. He never reacted well whenever his elder sister was mentioned. "Chrom, are you all right?" 

"I know I shouldn't feel this way." The prince's voice was lower than normal. "I've had plenty of time to accept what happened. But...a _Plegian_? We know absolutely nothing about him." 

"We know that he helped us when we needed it, just like every other Shepherd. We recruited Tharja, and she's Plegian. Hell, we recruited Gaius when he was planning on stealing from the royal treasury." She shook her head. "Henry is as worthy of being here as anyone else." 

Chrom sighed. "I know, I know. Believe me, I feel terrible for even thinking this way. I just need to be alone for a bit." 

Robin pursed her lips. "I understand. Get some rest, and I'll see you in the morning. Tell Sumia and Lucina that I said goodnight." 

"I will." 

She walked outside and turned to make her way back to her own tent. After taking only a few steps, however, she accidentally bumped into someone in the darkness. "Ack! I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, stepping back to see who she'd run into. A pair of dark eyes in a pale face bored into hers, making Robin feel apprehensive. "Oh, uh, hello there, Tharja. What are you doing here?" 

Tharja's frown deepened. "Making sure that new one didn't harm you." She stepped a bit closer. "You're hex-free right now, but until he proves that he's not a complete idiot, I'll be paying close attention to you. _Extra_ close." 

Robin had no idea how much more attention Tharja could possibly pay her, nor did she want to. "A-all right, thanks, but don't work yourself too hard." 

The dark mage looked almost delighted at Robin's admonishment. "You're worried for me? How sweet," she cooed. 

"Oh, it's nothing. Haha...hah. Well, goodnight, Tharja." Robin barely managed to keep herself from breaking into a sprint as she walked back to her tent.

.~.~.

As Henry got settled in, he could hear the whisperings. Plegian. Untrustworthy. _Dangerous_. He was just too used to whispers to care. 

He got a teeny tiny bit annoyed when, only a few days after he'd joined the Shepherds, he went back to his tent following a training session—to which Frederick had forcefully dragged him—and found that it was in shambles. Shredded bedroll, little table overturned, parchment strewn about, tomes missing. The only object left untouched was the decomposing Risen eyeball he'd put in a jar at the foot of his now-destroyed bed, so at least there was that. He stood at the entrance and blinked slowly, then shrugged and made his way to one of the supply tents. 

He ended up, by happenstance, at the same tent in which Robin was taking some inventory or other. She looked up at the rustle at the entrance, and smiled slightly when she recognized the dark mage. 

"Afternoon, Henry," she greeted. She seemed then to notice Henry's exhausted appearance and muffled a snicker. "Frederick got you, didn't he?" 

"Uh-huh. So hey, where can I get another bedroll?" 

Robin frowned. "What happened to yours?" 

"It got all ripped up."

The tactician lifted a skeptical brow and took a couple of steps closer to him, quill and parchment lowering. "How did it _get_ all ripped up?" 

Henry scratched his cheek and shrugged. "I think it got trashed." 

"By you?" 

He shook his head. Robin, quick as she was, understood immediately, mouth opening in a small "o" of dismay. 

But Henry just waved it off. "It's totally fine! It's not like I had any personal stuff in there anyway." 

"That's not the point," Robin snapped. Her jaw clenched for a moment. "I'm sorry, Henry. You didn't deserve that." 

Expectations were a luxury, in his book. "Don't worry about it," he replied with a laugh. 

She shook her head. "Of course I'm worried. I'll help you find some new things right now. Come on, the convoy isn't far from here." She went towards the tent flaps, but paused, putting a comforting hand on Henry's upper arm. "Sorry," she muttered again.  

Henry stood stiff as a board, unsure how to act in this situation. Most people never touched him. He didn't have to think about it for long, though, because Robin slipped quickly out of the tent. Henry followed her unthinkingly, reflexively. 

When Chrom made an announcement that evening that hazing or harassment of any Shepherd was unacceptable and would be met with swift retribution, Henry knew it was no coincidence, and looked over to see Robin flash him a small smile. He thought that was a little funny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as previously mentioned, Japanese Henry and Localized Henry have pretty different representations. Japanese Henry comes off as more childlike, morbid in a not-very-funny way, and the sunny disposition he constantly presents is a façade; essentially, he's written off as "damaged goods" and that's about all that there is to him. On the other hand, Localized Henry has a goofier sense of humor, is more outgoing, and insists that his smiles and laughter are the genuine article. I dunno why the changes were made, but I'm exploring how the two can intertwine, since I think it's definitely possible. (Sorry for the long note!)


	2. Conditioned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A summary of Henry's background that catches us up to the previous chapter.

After more than a decade, he could still remember it, plain as day. Funny how your brain seems to latch on to the things you really wanna forget, eh?

His wolf screamed as arrows bit into her flesh. Henry screamed, too, then, unable to tear his eyes away from her as hands held him back. Her yelps and cries did nothing, though, were choked out eventually with a wet gurgle, her eyes blank.

A ripple of red, almost like a haze, washed over Henry's vision. In a sort of daze, he walked back to his house, grabbed the first tome he saw—it wasn't as though his parents were keeping an eye on him, after all—and sought out every single person he could remember who'd soiled their hands with her blood. Henry splashed his village with the same color as his last memory of the only creature that had ever loved him. His mind replayed the way she'd howled in pain each time he made one of her killers do the same. No one tried to get in his way.

When he returned home positively caked in red, his parents looked at him with dull, expressionless eyes and sent him to his room. That was all. No lamentations, no reactions of horror, no reprimands. Henry fell asleep quickly, humming the lullaby his wolf had sung to him on sleepless nights.

The next morning, men dressed in dark armor dragged Henry, groggy and confused, from his bedroom, tossed him into an armored carriage with his hands shackled behind him, and took him to an informative prison which masqueraded as a school for gifted children.

~.~.~

He learned there that his own yelps and cries did nothing, either. The other children would keep on kicking, keep on shoving, keep on pricking with their nasty little curses and hexes. None of the adults cared that he dragged himself from one room to the next, pasty skin a mosaic of red on blue on purple on black. So many colors where everything else was gray. Nobody would avenge him the way he'd avenged his poor mom, because nobody cared.

He noticed a pattern amongst his schoolmates: they would always, always, converge on the weakest member of the pack. Any child caught groaning over a sprained ankle, or whimpering over a broken nose, was targeted by the rest. Henry didn't blame them—it seemed natural. Instinctive. The feeble were picked off, like in the wild. And this _was_ the wild. The realization dawned on him after he'd witnessed enough demonstrations: showing that you're hurt usually invites more hurt. It was sooo obvious.

It didn't take long after this revelation for the truth of it to be branded into Henry's brain forever.

One of the other pupils, a dim-witted little brute, decided one day to take his frustration with his unfortunate circumstances out on Henry. Lots of children did—Henry was precocious, and mostly quiet, and really quite skinny. A perfect punching bag. The bully approached Henry in the mess hall, where he was eating alone, as usual. Henry could sense him standing behind him.

Just as the other boy's hand descended on his shoulder, Henry did the one thing he hadn't before: he fought back with everything he had.

Like the crack of a whip, Henry turned and slammed his metal food tray into the side of the other boy's head; the bully crashed to the stone floor like a felled tree. Still, Henry knew merely defending himself wouldn't be enough. He sank down onto the floor, knees on either side of his would-be attacker's body and, with both hands, raised the tray high above his head.

He smiled victoriously as he brought it down on the boy's face and heard a lovely _crunch_. A ruckus broke out as his schoolmates realized what was happening. Blows began raining down on his back, but he was determined to smile through the pain. He brought the heavy tray down again. Again. Again. Each time, it sounded like boots walking over gravel. He clenched his teeth and laughed through them as blood started oozing from his back, as the others hit him and yelled, as he slammed the tray back down. None of the others tried to put themselves between Henry and the bully on the floor—they didn't want to risk becoming his new focal point.

Finally, an adult forced their way through the crowd and tore Henry away from his fallen tormentor. The tray clattered to the ground, then the room was silent as the grave. Everyone stared at Henry, at how he was bruised and bloody and _smiling_. He laughed as he and the unmoving boy on the floor were dragged from the room.

Henry found out some time later that he had killed the bully. Smashed his head in. Well, a body was a body was a body, he supposed, and everyone was going to die eventually. The other kid had just been unlucky that day, picked on the wrong person. And what was the big deal, anyway? Henry never heard if his parents were even notified that their son had turned another kid's head into crunchy pudding. He wasn't punished—wasn't put in the room with the spikes ever again, after that. The other children skittered away from him like mice after the incident, which was pretty nice; it meant that he could study uninterrupted, eat his meals in peace, and walk through the halls unassailed.

Overall, he had to say that his stay (imprisonment?) at the institution had helped more than harmed. And why wouldn't he? It had given him a high pain threshold, a place to hone his gifts to razor-sharp lethality, and, just as importantly, a personal philosophy that was easy to follow and wildly effective. He survived his time there and was immediately enlisted into the military; anyone who made it through _alive_ was enlisted—they were simply too dangerous to be allowed to roam free. Henry was armed with some neat tomes and funny black tights and a cool, swishy cape. He especially liked the cape, liked the way it billowed behind him as he ran and flung his curses. It made him feel like he could fly. He'd always wanted to fly, but didn't think too hard about why. For some reason, birds seemed to really like him; maybe they could somehow sense that he loved animals, anything with wings in particular.

And Henry liked being part of an army, since it meant that he got to do what he did best. Martial life in Plegia was fairly care- and worry-free after the other soldiers learned not to mess with him (and some of them learned the hard way). He truly was happy as he cut down anyone who stood in his path, proving that he was valuable and obedient and helpful. He had fun in the ways he knew how, by spending time with a few forest buddies, inventing new curses, and collecting crow feathers. He was content with his lot in life. If there was one nit to pick, it was that he never was able to make any real friends. Still, he was glad to help Mustafa, Campari, and Vasto, and was rewarded for being so useful.

Then, something lame happened: Gangrel offed the Exalt of Ylisse, then went and got himself killed, just like the "mad king" he was. And after all the trouble Henry had gone through to tell that random taguel about the first assassination attempt! Well...honestly, he'd done that on a whim. He just got easily distracted sometimes. Anyway, Plegia's army eventually toppled like a tower of children's blocks. _Now_ what was Henry supposed to do? Turn on his own army out of boredom? Done. Help those kinda clueless Ylissean troops (who went by some random name, like "Herders", but classier. Maybe they herded goats on the side.)? Done. He liked shaking things up—more fighting meant more fun. Still, for a while there, he just drifted. These new undead monsters began cropping up all over the place, though, which was wild. They made the best noises whenever they exploded; and if Henry was quick enough, he could grab a body part or two off of 'em before they dissolved into nothingness.

Things were going swell for him, no two ways about it. Then, when Henry was just wandering around with some ravens one night, he caught the smell of rotting flesh, bringing a grin to his face. Naturally, he ran towards the source. Oh, sure, he found the monsters, but also something he wasn't expecting: the Herders! Those little guys clearly needed help. And who was Henry to turn away a chance to give it, especially if it meant being able to use his brand new tome?

For some reason, a few Herders looked at him funny after the fighting was finished. But he had to have imagined that—why would it have been weird for him to have killed so many of the zombies? They were all doing it, too.

He had just finished popping an eyeball out of a downed archer's socket when he heard someone call out behind him. He turned towards the voice, pleased that perhaps someone had recognized how well he did in the battle. "Hiya!" he greeted. It was one of the ladies he saw earlier, who gave most of the orders during the fight. He liked her coat a lot.

She said she was sorry about not talking to him before the attack, but Henry didn't mind. What, did she think she had to do some stuffy meet-and-greet while all hell broke loose around them? That was silly. She caught and held his attention, however, when she introduced herself as "Robin". Huh. Another bird on the battlefield. Maybe she wanted to fly, too.

Did the blue haired beefcake really mean that he could come with them? That he'd let Henry join their cause? (More like CAWs, hehe. Oh, that would never get old.) Robin said that, yes, he was welcome to become a Herde—Shepherd. A Shepherd. It was fun to have a name like that, since it made them sound like they were a sports team or special club. He'd never been very good at sports, but if _killing_ was the sport the Shepherds played, then he'd fit right in, for sure. This was exciting!

So, feeling giddy, he followed the bird in the purple coat away from the bloody field. But not before grabbing that Risen eyeball, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Children develop their ethical beliefs from their mentors and peers at a young age; so, considering that Henry's moral compass sometimes seems like more of a roulette wheel, it makes sense that his youth was preeeetty fucked up, haha.


	3. Drawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d apologize for taking so long to update this, but my life was thrown into absolute disarray and I knew that rushing to put up a new chapter wouldn’t make anybody happy—especially myself. But hey, it’s Britney, bitch. I’m back [finger guns]

The sound of a shriek rang through camp, which was followed by a loud peal of laughter. Standing up so quickly that he almost knocked over his chair, Chrom dashed from the tactics tent only to slam into Robin, who’d been barreling towards her adjacent tent at top speed. “ _Wargh_ —Robin! What’s going on?”

Robin staggered backwards, clutching her chest as she gasped for air. “Henry...arm...gods, the stench....”

“What’s wrong with Henry’s arm? Does he need a healer?” 

“He brought back a _Risen arm_  from the last battle! Ugh, I should’ve run to the latrines instead.” Robin slumped to the ground and put her head between her knees. 

“Naga above, that’s disgusting.” Chrom looked down at his tactician, at a total loss. “What should we do?” 

“I told him to get rid of it, obviously. It’d better not happen again.” She sighed. “We need to do something. Maybe we can figure out ways to keep him constantly busy so that he can’t indulge in his more...unique hobbies. Or more grotesque, or whatever.” She looked up at Chrom and raised an eyebrow. “Do you think you could convince Frederick to take on some help with his more menial tasks?” 

~.~.~ 

Henry had had a bit of a rough start, that was for sure. Whether it was because his presence naturally attracted birds—who tried to make nests of the Shepherds’ hair—or because the others didn’t get nearly as much of a kick out of killing enemies as he did, Robin wasn’t sure. He was...quirky. Idiosyncratic. And had a pronounced affinity for the macabre.

So they put him to work, doing anything that was relatively simple but still plenty time consuming. Whenever he wasn’t helping to take inventories and restock supplies, he was mending tents, or helping with cooking, or being dragged to training sessions by a certain overzealous knight. It seemed to be going well so far. 

Since their arrival in Valm, Chrom’s army had been busier than ever; thanks to this, Henry was rarely left standing still. That was something that he and Robin had in common—the tactician was exhausting herself, darting around and doing odd jobs whenever she wasn’t frequently in Chrom’s tent planning strategy. Landing on a completely different continent seemed to have added additional gravitas to Robin’s work, and it was beginning to show in her heavy steps and creased forehead. A few weeks into their arrival in Valm Harbor and after the subsequent rescue of Say’ri, Chrom finally noticed that his lead strategist was running herself ragged. He sternly ordered her to ease up a bit. 

“What does that even _mean_?” she asked, brow crumpled in confusion. “I can’t just stop working.” 

“I didn’t say that,” Chrom replied, leaning forward in his chair and pinning Robin with his worried gaze. “Just...don’t work yourself so hard. Take breaks. You’re only human.”

“But the Shepherds _need_  me. I can’t let them down.” 

“Exactly. What will happen to us if you become so exhausted that you can’t strategize to your fullest capacity? We need you at your best.” He stood up from his seat, prompting Robin to do the same, and he patted her on the shoulder as they made their way to the tent’s entrance. “Not only that, but we care about you as a person,” he said. “Please take care of yourself.”

Robin harrumphed quietly. “I suppose you have a point. I’ll try to relax more.”

Lightening her workload certainly wasn’t easy at first; she was restless and fidgety during her off-time, sometimes resorting to pacing between the rows of tents as she felt Tharja’s eyes watching her from various concealed locations. After several days of this, it occurred to her that doing chores and such with Henry could provide a plausible distraction from her anxious thoughts. She’d worked with him without incident a handful of times since he’d joined the Shepherds’ party. The dark mage was a bit loud, but studious and methodical all the same. She figured that it made sense, considering the fact that practicing magic required strict adherence to specific sequences in spells and incantations—anything otherwise could lead to very messy results, after all. Even Frederick was impressed by his work ethic. 

And Robin was quickly surprised by how easy it was to hold a conversation with him. He did about seventy-five percent of the talking, but listening to his stories about places he’d traveled and the creatures and people he’d met kept her mind from racing. She didn’t really mind—he had some interesting things to say. He recounted the spell-swapping sessions he’d had with Ricken and Miriel, the games he’d played with Nowi, the ridiculous number of times he’d smacked into Kellam in broad daylight, and more. 

“I’m glad to hear that you’re having a good time,” Robin said one evening as she and Henry sat near the fire after dinner. “Has anyone been giving you trouble lately?”

“Nah,” he replied. “Life’s been pretty good to this dark mage.”

The way Henry said this—in what may very well have been the most chipper tone possible—made her feel...guilty, for some odd reason. “ _Dark_  mage,” she echoed. “You don’t seem very ‘dark’ to me, Henry.”

“Heh, well, it’s not like I made up the thing people call me.”

She turned to face him. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “You know, back home, we always just called dark mages ‘mages’ because they used magic—the type didn't matter. It was other countries that added the ‘dark’ part to the Plegian mages who draw their power from different sources, and it just sorta stuck. Chrom’s father was super good at making everybody except Ylisse look like the bad guy. And now it's basically our official name.” 

"'Different sources'? What does that mean?"

Henry scratched his head and leaned back a bit on the log on which they were sitting. "Well, I never really bothered to get into all of that technical stuff—if it works, I use it. But I do know that a lot of Plegian mages harness power directly from emotions. And, yeah, you can make curses that are positive. But then there are the emotions like anger, fear, despair, hatred, stuff like that—those are always strong. And heck, there's plenty of those emotions to go around! Why _wouldn't_  we use 'em?"

“Does it take a toll on you, constantly tapping into negative emotions?”

“Hmm. Not that I’ve noticed.”

"Still, I guess that makes some sense," said Robin, "taking advantage of such an abundant resource. Do Plegian mages resent the negativity that the name implies?" 

“Not really. At least, I know _I_ don't—I think it sounds way cooler. Some people might think it’s rude, I guess, but to be honest, our magic compared to some of the wimpy elemental stuff practiced outside Plegia can seem pretty nasty." Henry laughed. "I mean, Ricken likes fanning the enemy with a cool breeze using that wind magic of his, and there are mages like him in Plegia, too, but one of _my_ favorite spells dissolves a person's spinal column!" 

"And do you...worship Grima?" asked Robin hesitantly. She was looking at the Grimleal eye markings on the collar of his cape. "I know that a lot of dark mages do."

"Nya ha, I'm not much for religion. My parents were—are? I dunno if they're still alive—but not me. Do _you_ worship Grima?" He poked at the same markings on her coat sleeves.

Robin made a weird face. "No, I don’t, but before I lost my memories...who knows? I wish I could remember my past. I wish I could know who I _am_." 

"Hey, now," Henry chided, "don’t let that get ya down." A raven suddenly swooped down from a nearby tree and landed on his head, making Robin jump. Henry didn't even flinch. "Besides, sometimes forgetting stuff isn't a totally bad thing."

"I realize that, but—" The tactician bit her lip and frowned up at the stars. "I'm afraid. I want to remember my past, but at the same time, I'm terrified of finding out who I was.” She wondered why she was so easily baring her soul to a man she hadn’t even known for very long. Robin had barely brought up such topics to Chrom, let alone anyone else. “What if I was a terrible person? What if I end up doing...terrible things?"

Henry glanced over at her with a confused looking smile. "Why're you so worked up about who you were? It's who you are now that you should care about. And plenty of people think you're neat."

Robin gave him a little grin. "Has anyone ever told you that you can be pretty wise sometimes?"

"Eh, I just call things as I see them."

She laughed. “Well, thanks. You’re neat, too.”

Henry idly kicked his feet. “Sure, if you say so,” he said nonchalantly.

“I mean it. I’ve never really understood why some people think that you’re a bad guy.”

“Pfft, people are just silly, thinking that coming from a military that worships a fell dragon automatically makes you evil! What if you're just part of the gang because you like the colors of their outfits? I look great in purple and black.”

Robin snorted out a little laugh. “That’s a good point.” Then she sighed. “Thanks for listening to me, Henry. I feel stressed out almost constantly, but it’s good to know that I can vent to you every now and then.”

“No problem. You’re not too bad at hiding your weaknesses. It’s cool. Never let 'em see you sweat, that's what I always say!”

Robin quirked a brow. “I've literally never heard you say that, but okay.”

“Don't let people know you're hurt—that’ll kill you quick.” Henry shifted a little, and the raven that had perched on him flew away. 

Robin stared at him. “And what makes you say that?”

Henry stared into the heart of the fire, the crackling flames reflecting in his dark eyes. His next words were spoken a bit more slowly than usual. “I went to a school. Sort of like a...wizard school? Where people dumped their kids when they didn't want them anymore. In a way, it was a little bit like an orphanage, since we were all pretty much dead to our families and we never saw them again. And I learned that people who showed they were hurting got smushed like bugs.”

“So you smiled.” Robin felt like her stomach was being filled with rocks. “No matter what happened to you, you kept on smiling. Is that it?”

“Yep! And it worked! Well, that and I got really good at hexes and did some smushing myself, so people stayed away unless they wanted their brains to start oozing out their ears.”

“But you're smiling right now, Henry. You almost always are. Are they all fake?” She almost reached down to cover his hand with one of hers but stopped at the last second, unnerved by the sudden impulse.

Henry looked down at her hand, as if he’d seen what she’d almost done. “Umm, I think they used to be, mostly. But after I was put in the army, I got to do what I do best, and I got happy.”

“Are you happy now?”

“Sure am!” His smile stretched even bigger, eyes closing to accommodate it. “I get to kill stuff, and I have friends. And I get to kill stuff _with_  my friends!”

“Haha, yes, you do. But, you know, this war won't last forever.” Robin tilted her head. “What are you going to do once it's over?”

“Dunno. I usually don’t think that far ahead. And I mean, does war ever _really_  end? Or does it just get smaller every now and then until someone finds a reason to bring it back in a big way? The way I see it, being a soldier means pretty solid job security.”

It was quiet for a moment. Finally, Robin muttered, “I wish you were wrong.” They stared at the fire that crackled and snapped in the silence, neither of them saying a word.

“I think it’s great that we’re in this war,” said Henry abruptly. Before Robin could ask for clarification on that thought, he continued. “I wouldn’t’ve met all you guys without it.”

“I guess that’s one way of putting it,” she agreed. They both sat quietly for a few minutes before Robin stood and dusted off her coat. “All right, I’m bushed. Goodnight, Henry. See you tomorrow.”

“Yep, seeya.” He smiled up at her a final time before going back to looking at the fire. Robin quickly made her way to her tent, the thought of leaving him alone making her feel colder than what could be owed to the evening air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, realizing that Henry says both “wizard school” and “orphanage” in the English translation: [groans of increasing discomfort]


	4. Bewildered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. Heheh.

It started out as a prickling at the back of Henry’s neck. He blinked a few times, noticing the sudden change. Hmm. This felt like a curse. He grinned as the prickling intensified and spread like a brush fire, igniting pain in its wake that even reached the backs of his eyeballs. Yeah, curse—and a decent one, too. But still no biggie. 

Tharja watched in awed resentment as Henry shrugged, muttered a few words, and snapped his fingers. She instantly felt the curse break. “I can’t believe this,” she hissed to herself.

“Believe it!” Henry chirped. “Hello, Tharja! Say, what’re you doing behind that bush?”

The fellow Plegian stepped into the open grudgingly, her eyes glaring daggers. “I refuse to believe that you can nullify _all_  of my curses. I will find one that’ll stick.”

Henry snickered. “You sure you wanna underestimate me? It’s been the very last thing a lot of people have done.”

“Is that a threat, little man?”

“Pshaw, I’m just messing with you. But hey, that was a good try. I like that curse a lot! I think I first cast it when I was...six? No—seven. Definitely seven. Whoa, you’re really clenching your fists tight, heheh. That looks like it might hurt.”

“Don’t think that I haven’t noticed what you’ve been up to,” she continued lowly.

“Ohhh, you saw that?” Henry tapped his chin. “I could’ve sworn nobody noticed when I sneaked those kidneys into camp.”

“Don’t be an imbecile. I’m referring to the unusual amount of time you’ve been spending with Robin.”

“Huh? Now, believe me, I know ‘unusual’ like the back of my hand. But I don’t see what’s so weird about that.”

“You spend time with her nearly every day,” Tharja accused. “Time she could be spending with me.”

“Well, you _are_  technically spending plenty of time with her, since you’re always following her around and whatnot.”

“I always do that,” she muttered. “But you haven’t always been near her the way that I have. I’ve known Robin for more than two years longer than you, yet she’s continued to spend more and more time in your presence.” Her eyes flashed. “Just what spell did you cast on her? It must be one that I’ve never encountered.”

“Huh? I haven’t cast any spells on Robin. Wellll...” The sorcerer scratched his head. “I did once offer to turn her into a toad, but Miriel didn’t go for it. Why, have _you_  cursed her or anything before?”

“That’s none of your business,” Tharja snapped.

“Nya ha, sounds like a ‘yes’ to me!”

“Don’t change the subject. What exactly is your goal? What do you stand to gain by being near her so often?”

“Gain?” Henry gave Tharja a blank look. Something weird started to happen in his head. Another curse? What _did_  he stand to gain? He’d never considered it. “Gotta be honest, I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do,” Tharja replied, her eyes burning into him. Henry’s head started to feel even weirder.

He laughed, trying to ignore its confusing undercurrent of insincerity. “You’re so serious! Robin and I just work together.”

“Deny it all you want, but I’m on to you,” Tharja murmured. “You’ll never deserve Robin. And if you ever so much as lay a finger on her, if you hurt her in any capacity, I will _end_  you.”

Henry hummed. “Gotcha. Not sure why I’d put my finger on her, though.” He watched his fellow mage slink away, towards the direction of the closest grouping of tents in the evening’s camp.

Gain. Huh.

Henry just stood there for a few moments, puffed out his cheeks, and then went to look for Robin, not sparing a second thought to how it’d become a habit.

~.~.~

Months of preparation had led to this day.

The Shepherds stormed Valm Castle head-on, armed to the teeth and moving in close ranks as they approached. The fight to close in on Walhart himself went surprisingly quickly, thanks to Robin anticipating numerous mounted enemies and arming Chrom’s soldiers with beast killers and rapiers. Frederick and Say’ri both eventually struck Walhart with enough force to make him retreat into his castle. That, Robin knew, was when the real battle was about to begin. 

The Shepherds regrouped, rallied, and surged into the castle’s great hall. They were quickly beset by a horde of Valmese soldiers and commanders, the enemies coming out of the woodwork in a last-ditch attempt to drive the Ylisseans back. Absolute bedlam ensued. 

Robin had stationed herself nearer to the back of Chrom’s troops, giving orders to those who surrounded her and casting spells at the occasional enemy who came within her firing range. She wasn’t paired up with anyone, but it seemed to be a non-issue. Things were going well. They could do this—she felt it in her bones, in the thrill going up her spine. When a flank of Valmese warriors came up on the army’s left, prompting a platoon in front of the tactician to veer and intercept their approach, Robin was left wide open. For the first time, she felt nervous. Why hadn’t she paired up? That thought flitted through her mind right before she saw sudden, frantic movement from her right peripheral.  

There was no avoiding it, really. An enemy valkyrie cast Arcwind at an Ylissean wyvern lord off to Robin’s right; the strong gale sent Robin staggering, barely staying on her feet. And that was when a general several yards ahead of her made his move. With a grunt, he launched a spear at Robin. She didn’t even see it coming. 

Sudden, searing pain on on the left side of her torso paralyzed her, knocked the breath from her chest, blurred her vision. She heard herself scream and then fall to the floor of the throne room, her head slamming onto the cold stone floor like a sandbag. 

Not like this. 

Ugh, no. It couldn’t happen like this, not here. She was needed. There were so many lives she could still save. She just...couldn’t seem to _get up_. Robin felt the shock begin to set in just moments later as she lay prone, her pain vanishing along with the desire to stand. Then she was out like a light. 

~.~.~

Henry heard a pained cry, one that stood out above all the others bouncing off the walls during the skirmish. He froze where he stood for a moment, then immediately shot off in the direction of the shout. He knew that voice. Knew it better than anyone else’s. Henry’s blood went cold when he caught sight of her. 

Gods. _Gods_ , but that was a lot of blood. It felt like his brain was rattling inside his skull as he stared at Robin, wide-eyed. She was hurt. Hurt real bad. Shot full of arrows. He could see them sticking out of her from all angles. Wait. No, nonono, there were no arrows. But the blood was still everywhere, soaking into her tome, into her hair, into her pretty purple coat. Not right. This wasn’t right. 

Hands had held him back all those years ago. But he couldn’t feel them anywhere on him now. He could do something about this. Had to do something. Anything.

Henry couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this upset, or if he ever even _had_. It reflected in his magic as he sucked the life from anyone who tried to come near him and Robin, as he used his magic to make his enemies bleed from their pores or stab themselves with their own weapons or scream as they were thrown against the castle walls so hard that Henry could hear their bones shatter. It was messy. He usually loved this part. A distant corner of his mind noted that he wasn’t having fun. Not having fun at all. He couldn’t understand why he felt like he was teetering between being angry and numb and _make it stop make it stop get away from her—_

He almost cast a curse at Libra, who was running with staff in hand towards the sorcerer and their fallen tactician. Instead of looking at him in fear or revulsion like Henry had come to expect, the monk calmly met his eye as he passed. “Well done, Henry,” he said as he knelt down beside Robin. Henry just stared at them, flicking a Bolganone spell over his shoulder which engulfed a Valmese soldier who’d been coming up from behind. Didn’t even have to look. He continued to stare as two clerics joined Libra and they transferred Robin onto a stretcher, hurrying to remove her from the main hall area. He watched one of her arms fall from the stretcher and dangle limply, blood trickling to the floor in its wake. The sight made something happen in Henry’s gut, a kind of hurt that his impressive pain tolerance wasn’t lessening. Ow. Felt like he was going to throw up. He had to keep doing things. Had to take his mind off of that weird type of hurt. Head whipping around wildly, he spotted a fairly straight shot to the end of the great hall. There was Walhart, looking like a giant, angry lobster on the back of his horse. A big target. Henry’s face split into a grin.

The last thing he really remembered was running full-tilt towards Walhart, Chrom not far behind. Before the Conqueror could even do so much as glance in his direction, Henry viciously blasted him twice with magic from his battered Waste tome and then Chrom rushed in for the kill. 

Henry didn’t stay to witness the death blow, turning on his heel and darting off to follow the direction of where Robin had been carried off on her stretcher, the trail dotted with red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I’m not meaning to make Tharja sound so mean. She’s honestly one of my favorite FE characters, but she’d definitely clash with whoever else occupies Robin’s interest.


	5. Entrenched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the last part of the previous chapter and the first part of this chapter almost two years ago, and it’s so _liberating_ to finally be able to post them :V

When Robin woke up in the medical tent, her head was heavy, pulse pounding dully through her aching body. Her eyes were shut, but she could faintly make out a sound off to her right. Humming. The tune was almost melancholic, but also hauntingly pretty, soothing. She recognized its source immediately.

"Henry,” she mumbled.

She felt a long fingered hand smoothing her hair back from her sweaty face. "Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey," the dark mage cooed, a smile in his voice.

Robin opened her eyes, warmth suffusing her when she saw Henry at her bedside. "Hey, there."

"Heya," he replied, voice low out of respect for her poor head.

Robin struggled to remember why she was even there. "What...what happened?"

"A Valmese gotcha good, then you smacked your head hard when you went down. You were bleeding so much that I thought you were a goner." Robin became aware that the throbbing in her body seemed to be radiating from her left side as well as her head. "But don't worry," added Henry quickly, "I made that guy pay. Too bad you didn't see it—it was pretty sweet. Those Waste tomes make people crumple in on themselves like a hammer axe on a breastplate!"

"Ugh...." She closed her eyes as her head throbbed, a light wave of nausea making her stomach roll.

Henry's right hand tentatively reached out to rest atop her own at her side while his left continued to pet her hair. Robin didn't think Henry's touch was unpleasant, by any means—it was welcome, just foreign. Henry didn't really touch people.

"You—" Henry's voice cracked, a teeny, tiny bit. "You looked dead. Out there. White as a ghost. And—and so much blood, you know? And I was busy somewhere else, so when I got to you and you weren't moving, I thought..." He laughed quietly. It rang hollow in the stillness of the tent.

Robin echoed back a chuckle, just as false as her companion's. "I'd have thought that the blood wouldn't have bothered you."

His hand grasped hers tightly, almost too tightly, and Robin repressed a small wince. He was stronger than he looked. "I didn't like seeing your blood, not even a little bit. It's weird...." Henry cocked his head, just like the birds he so loved. "I only ever felt like that when my wolf died."

Robin blinked slowly. Her head felt even heavier now. "Well, I promise not to die. I’m not your wolf.”

His eyes bored into hers, their irises such a deep purple in the dim light that they were indistinguishable from the pupils. "Nope. You're not."

He looked like he was going to say something more, but the tent flaps fluttered and suddenly Lissa was standing beside them. "Hi," she said, her embarrassment at having interrupted a private moment obvious in her expression. 

Henry's hands jerked to his sides as he quickly stood up. "Seeya later, Robin," he said, leaving the tent in a rush. Robin stared at his retreating back before looking over to Lissa, taking in the princess's worried gaze as she clutched her staff.

"Is everything...okay?" Lissa asked.

Robin shrugged her shoulders, forgetting her injury, and hissed in pain. "Just tired." And feeling more than a little stupid.

Lissa shook her head fondly, leaning over the tactician as she pulled down the blanket covering Robin's body and began undoing the dressings that swathed her torso. "Well, duh, you're in the medical tent, so that's not what I meant. I—well, is everything okay between you and Henry?"

"...I think so. Honestly, I'm glad his was the first face I saw when I woke up. I was worried about him."

Lissa hummed in acknowledgement. "Makes sense. I sort of guessed he'd be here with you."

Robin frowned. "What makes you say that?"

Lissa rolled her eyes dramatically. "Jeez, Robin, I _know_. A lot of people know. He looks at you the same way Gaius looks at honey cakes, or Miriel looks at well organized bookshelves."

Robin snorted. "It—it’s not like that. We've gotten closer to each other recently, that's all."

"Really?" Lissa didn't sound at all convinced as her staff glowed faintly over Robin's side. "Well, you didn't see what happened to him after you got hurt."

'Happened to him'? Robin didn't understand. "Was he wounded, too?" She hadn't noticed anything physically wrong with him, but maybe the healing magic had dulled her senses more than she'd thought.

"He, um..." Lissa's teeth were worrying at her lower lip. "He kind of went...berserk. He was at your side the second after you fell, and he was yelling, and it was scary. He stood guard over you until Libra was able to reach you two, and his magic...I mean, it's usually creepy, but this stuff was...huge. Darker than normal. He was taking out Valmese in groups, and he almost threw a curse at Libra before he realized that he was on our side." She visibly suppressed a shudder. Robin remained quiet. "I don't think I'll ever forget that look he had on his face—even his weird smile would've been better."

Robin swallowed, looking off to the side. "He would've done the same thing for any of his friends."

"Nuh-uh," Lissa rebutted gently. "Ricken was injured before you were, and Henry didn't react that way. He's never flipped out like that."

"It was just—look, don't read too much into that. The battle was really tough, and everyone was under a lot of stress. It's a wonder that no one else acted unusually."

Lissa sighed. "Robin, I know I'm not speaking from personal experience, but trust me: you're totally special to him. He _really_  likes you."

Robin closed her eyes. "I don’t want to have to think about this," she whispered.

Lissa frowned, leaning in a bit closer to better hear. "Huh?"

"Nothing." Robin shook her head, thoughts already becoming muzzy from the healing. She just wanted to sleep. Thinking felt like such a chore at the moment. "I'm tired."

"Okay, okay, I'll let you get some more rest. We need you to get back to bossing us around soon," Lissa teased. She turned and quietly made her way out of the tent.

Robin felt like she was sinking down into a cloud instead of lying on a stiff cot. Man, she’d almost forgotten how the adrenaline of battle helped mitigate healing magic’s sedative effects. Lead weights settled on her eyelids, drawing them inexorably down. Before sleep overtook her completely, she saw a brief flash of sunlight through her eyelids, and moments later felt a cool hand grab her own. 

.~.~.

Henry wasn’t stupid.

A little slow on the uptake about some things, sure. But he knew that the way Robin had been making him feel over the past several weeks wasn’t something he’d experienced before. His violent reaction to her being gravely injured in the last battle had been a bit of a wake-up call, to say the least.

As Robin slept, Henry pulled her blanket up a little higher—he didn’t want her to get cold. He went back to holding her hand right after. She was warm, and he always felt warm around her, too. Henry blinked slowly as he watched her. When had Robin become his favorite person? Hoo boy, this was gonna make Tharja flip her lid. The corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. Maybe there was a wizard fight over the tactician on his horizon. That’d be pretty cool.

Heh, he sure hadn’t seen this coming. But it didn’t freak him out, either. No crazy epiphanies, no sudden urges to boldly declare his feelings, no burning desire to make grand gestures. No drama. That’d never been his style. Or Robin’s, really.

This just felt natural. Like...breathing. And nobody ever asks _why_ someone breathes. It just happens. Maybe Henry’s outlook on it was simplistic, but it worked for him. He should probably talk to Robin about this—if he could figure out how to bring it up, that is. Didn’t want to spring it on her all of a sudden.

Once Robin had been soundly asleep for several minutes, Henry decided that he should leave her be. After gently patting her on the head, he let go of her hand and left the tent.

Upon making his way outside, he almost smacked into Maribelle; she must’ve just relieved Lissa of her post. “What were you doing in there?” Maribelle asked pointedly.

Henry shrugged. “Just checking on Robin.”

For some reason, the cleric almost looked offended. “I’ll have you know that we _are_ rather good at our job, Henry. You have my word that she’ll be perfectly fine.”

He knew that. He knew that the healers did good work. But he’d still wanted to be there for Robin. “Gotcha. Sorry,” he said anyway. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair, then.” He walked past Maribelle, but stopped when she let out a large gasp.

“What happened to your back?” Maribelle cried shrilly.

Huh? Henry craned his neck in an attempt to look behind him. Ah. There was a long, diagonal gash running from his right shoulder blade down to the middle of his back. Imagine that. It was probably from that Valmese paladin who’d clipped him while he’d been running to get to Robin. He peered at it for a few seconds, wondering why he hadn’t really noticed it before. Well, he was beginning to feel it now.

“Dear gods, Henry! This is bad! Why didn’t you say anything about this?”

“Oh, heh, it didn’t seem like such a big deal. I actually forgot about it for awhile. Seriously, I handle pain great.”

“Is that so?” Maribelle looked like she was having a difficult time believing him. “And you didn’t notice that your cape was likely soaked with blood when you removed it earlier?”

“I just thought it was someone else’s. That’s how it usually goes!”

“Never mind. We need to treat this right now,” said Maribelle firmly, leaving no room for argument.

Henry shrugged. “Pfft, okay. I just think you’re making this molehill into a mountain, Maribelle.” Though he couldn’t ignore that he was _really_  feeling it now.

Maribelle barely refrained from rolling her eyes. “Back into the tent—cleric’s orders.” She took hold of his upper arm to support him as they walked through the tent flaps, then carefully helped him remove his shirts and sit on a stool in the nearest corner. The noblewoman made disapproving noises to herself as she cleaned the wound, applied her staff’s magic, and bandaged over the slowly healing injury.

“‘Kay, thanks, Maribelle!” said Henry quietly, still conscious of Robin sleeping several feet away. He grabbed his shirts and made to get up and leave, but Maribelle was having none of it. She tsked and grabbed his arm again, marching him over to the beds and helping him sit on the cot where he’d been sitting earlier, the one right next to Robin’s. Henry looked up at Maribelle in mild surprise; she winked conspiratorially at him. He wasn’t sure how to respond. So he didn’t.

“I’ll check on you two before dinner,” Maribelle whispered. “Sleep, if you can.” Henry nodded, slowly maneuvering to lie down on his side without jostling his bandages and then pulling his blanket up to his chin.

Not long after he heard the flutter of tent flaps, he looked over to see Robin’s sleeping profile. Now that she was officially out of the woods, Henry couldn’t help but notice the calm he’d felt within himself ever since he’d ascertained that she was okay. He smiled at that, and at how sleepy Maribelle’s healing magic was making him feel. He could already feel himself dropping off. Mmm. He didn’t even have to count crows to make himself tired.

Henry looked at Robin one more time, closed his eyes, and breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a little f.y.i. the tune I imagine Henry humming is from “Lullaby” by Vitas.


End file.
